


Je ne parle pas français

by mungtheinept



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU in which Marco and Jean are on the same college soccer team, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:07:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mungtheinept/pseuds/mungtheinept
Summary: Marco Bodt has a problem: his dream is to go to culinary school in France, but he is absolutely, devastatingly, unimpeachably terrible at French. So, when his new teammate starts tutoring him, he allows himself to hope that he actually has a shot at that dream. One thing he never accounted for, though, is that he might fall for the one person that is giving him his chance to leave the country for good.Major disclaimer: I have not watched the show or read the manga since 2014. Although there are plenty of other characters from the show in this work, I tried to tag it with as few characters as possible so as to not have it show up for people who are looking for fanfic based off of the show/manga now.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Je ne parle pas français

“ _ Je parle français _ .”

The words came clear and soft out of Jean’s slightly pouted lips. I repeated them uncertainly, trying to mimic Jean’s mouth shape: “ _ Je parle français.” _

Jean raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile.

“…What?”

He allowed a laugh to escape, forgetting himself. “It’s just funny. You’re saying you speak French. But you clearly don’t.”

I covered my face with my hands, groaning. “Oh, God, I have so much work to do in this language.”

Jean continued to laugh at me, but I didn’t care. I liked Jean’s laugh, boyish and sharp, but full of joy. It wasn’t often that he wore anything other than a glare on his face, so I didn’t mind being a source of amusement for him.

That day was my third tutoring session with Jean. For whatever reason, I found language learning incredibly difficult—at that point, I had failed two consecutive semesters of French, and I desperately needed a tutor. Luckily, the soccer team matched me up with Jean, who was an incoming freshman recruit (a midfielder). Jean, who apparently grew up in a bilingual household, would tutor me for free—in exchange, the team convinced Jean’s advisor to let him take French as his second language despite his already knowing French. “In my defense,” he had said, “I never formally took classes in it. I’m a shit speller.”

I  _ could _ just stop trying to take French, since I had credits from high school Spanish that would transfer, but I desperately wanted to speak the language. Sure, to most people, I appeared to be right where I was supposed to be—a starting soccer player on a fairly successful college team, doing well in all the courses in my major (chemistry), and plenty of friends to pass the weekends with. But I was convinced that this period of my life was just a stepping-stone to my real dream: becoming a real chef in a real chef’s city—Paris. When I graduated high school, I had begged my parents to support my going to culinary school overseas, but they refused. Honestly, I couldn’t exactly hold it against them. I’d received a full ride to this university to play soccer, and I did well enough in science classes that my parents hoped I would have some chance at being a doctor.

I had no intentions of going to medical school, though—I privately chose a chemistry major as a compromise: something my parents would approve of that could potentially help with my understanding of the culinary arts. In fact, this semester, I was taking a food science course which would count toward my major.  _ Baby steps _ .

Jean leafed through my workbook from last semester, a glare of focus on his face as he looked over the professor’s comments on my work. I watched him thoughtfully, privately taking in some of the features I found attractive—his hair, an undercut, bleached a dusty blond on the top, and brown on the bottom; his jaw, sharp and masculine; his Adam’s apple, jutting out from his long, pale neck; then the deep notch where his neck met his clavicle. Catching myself, I didn’t let my gaze shift any lower.

In my defense, I was caught  _ very _ off-guard when I first met Jean a few weeks earlier, and I still hadn’t recovered. When I heard I was getting a French tutor, I never imagined he would end up being this…hot. I thought about the day we met—a sunny, late summer day. Coach Ackerman introduced the freshmen: an unassuming but reliable goalkeeper, Armin; a cheeky, overzealous forward, Connie; and finally, Jean, an aggressive, apparently highly skilled midfielder.

Practice went well for the first hour or so—everyone was excited to be back on the field, and it was fun to play with the new recruits. My first encounter with Jean was perhaps… not very pleasant for Jean. During a practice game, Eren, the team’s current striker, and a sophomore like me, accidentally lobbed a ball straight into Jean’s face. Eren had a powerful kick—Jean fell hard onto the ground, covering his face. I happened to be the person nearest to Jean; I remembered running over to check on him, kneeling down, gently pulling his arms away from his face, and studying it for any serious injuries.

I noticed his lips first. They were soft and full and apparently unmarred by the hit. A little blood dribbled out of his nose, and his eyes were squeezed shut, his brows brought together in a profound scowl. I remembered how shocked and flustered I felt, like I had just encountered an angel.

I still felt shocked and flustered around him—quite often.

Jean began speaking, snapping me out of my reverie, taking me violently back to the tutoring session in that little study room in the library. “—been failing because you’re fucking terrible at conjugating verbs. It’s just memorization, Marco. I’ll get you through this semester, easy.”

“Oh,” I answered, taken aback by his confidence. “That…would be great.”

“Anyway,” Jean said, closing his books and standing up, getting ready to leave. “That’s two hours. I think we’re done.”

“Two hours already,” I mused distractedly, fiddling with my pencil.  _ How did it go so fast? _

“…You okay?”

He was looking down at me. I met his gaze—his eyes were amber and piercing. At that moment, I made an executive decision: Jean Kirschtein is off-limits. Involving myself with him—who I wasn’t even sure was  _ into _ men—would be a bad idea. He was my teammate,  _ and _ my last chance at learning French.

_ French _ , I reminded myself sternly.  _ You have to learn French, or else what is any of this for? You can’t be here forever. No distractions. _

I made myself smile cheerfully. “I’m fine!”

Jean studied my face for a split second before his phone, which was sitting face up on the table, began ringing. The screen read  _ Dad _ . We both looked at it, then I looked at Jean—he was glaring at it balefully, like he wanted the phone to explode.

“Are you gonna pick that up?” I asked.

He glanced at me and laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

He finally sighed, grabbed the phone and swiped to answer the call. Holding it up to his ear, he threw me a meaningful look. He finally spoke into the receiver, “ _ Allô, papa? _ ”

He listened to the words spoken on the other side of the phone, turning away from me. His responses were short and toneless:  _ oui, oui, okay, d’accord, okay, yeah dad, I get it. _

When he hung up, he stuffed his phone in his pocket, glancing at me and opening the door of the study room to leave. “I’ll see you around, Marco.”

“Bye, Jean.”

* * *

In lab later that day, I told Mina, my lab partner, everything.

“So, you decided you’re going to ban all—what was the phrase you used?”

“Homosexual thoughts,” I said helpfully.

“So, you decided to ban all  _ homosexual thoughts _ about Jean from here on out,” confirmed Mina.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s stupid.”

I laughed. “Hey! I’m serious! Can you even imagine how weird it would be with the team if anything actually happened between us? Besides, I swore to myself college wouldn’t make me lose focus.”

“Lose focus?”

“It’s exactly what my parents want. They think that making me go to college will convince me to stay here and live a—I dunno. A ‘normal’ life? They don’t want me to go to culinary school or move out of the country. But, Mina, I want to,  _ so bad _ . I love cooking. It’s all I’ve ever wanted in life. So, I can’t lose focus. I’ll go to classes and play soccer and keep my head down.”

She sighed, and carefully added a few milliliters of our sample liquid to our distilling flask. Turning to me, she peered at me through her goggles. “Marco, you’re too strict with yourself. You need to loosen up.”

“I am not! I’m loose,” I objected weakly.

“The loosest I’ve seen you is when you had two glasses of wine at my apartment while we were watching period films,” Mina replied dryly, scribbling observations down in her notebook.

I turned on the heat and stared at the receiving flask, ready to replace it once ten drops had accumulated. A TA passed our table and told us the heat was on too low. Mina adjusted the heat, and I replaced the receiving flask once the liquid started boiling. For a while, we quietly worked, counting the rate of the liquid dropping into the receiving flask, recording temperatures, and shuffling through papers to ensure we were doing the distillation correctly.

Finally, the liquid was completely distilled, and we relaxed for a moment. “Our first game is this weekend,” I said. “You should come.”

“Maybe I will,” Mina smiled. “I have to see Jean in person.”

“He’s—well, yeah, he’ll probably be starting. He’s, uh. Really good.”

“Ohoho,  _ really good _ , is he?”

I blushed, laughing. “Shut up! He is a very talented soccer player. Anyone on our team would tell you that.”

She smiled. “Sure, of course. Anyway, I’ll be there.”

We carefully disassembled our distillation apparatus, cleaning all the parts and drying them with paper towels. Other students began finishing their labs, filtering out. Some poor souls had encountered catastrophic errors and were starting again from the beginning. Mina turned in our worksheet to the TA and we walked out into the hall, our backpacks slung over our backs. As we approached the door, Mina turned to me. “You know, I joke, but I do really think that if a chance comes up, you should give it a try.”

I sighed. “I don’t think a chance  _ will _ come up, but if it does, I guess I’ll just see what happens. But I’m not letting myself think gay thoughts.”

She laughed. “Fine, whatever. See you, Marco. Good luck this weekend!”

We left the building and parted ways and I thought about how preposterous this all was, overthinking far-off hypothetical situations. No, this was never something I’d have to worry about, so I resolved to continue not thinking about it.

* * *

I always wake up early on game days, and that Friday was no exception. At 5:00am, I stumbled into the shared kitchen and put a kettle on the stove to boil for some tea—I don’t drink coffee on game days. I began preparing myself a simple breakfast: eggs, sausage, and a green smoothie. I plucked the kettle off the stove just before it started to whistle—I didn’t want to wake Bert and Reiner, who, unlike me, slept in as much as possible on game days—and started steeping my tea. My eggs and sausage, which I had lazily thrown into the same skillet, were cooked through and all I had left to prepare was my smoothie. I glanced at the blender and then down the hallway towards the Bert and Reiner’s bedrooms and decided to eat what I had in front of me first, to avoid running the blender for as long as possible.

As I devoured my breakfast, I noticed my phone buzzing quietly on the other side of the table, where I’d left it. Was someone really  _ calling _ me at 5:30 in the morning? I grabbed my phone. Seeing the name on the screen, I immediately swiped to answer, shocked.

“Hello?”

A gravelly, sleepy voice answered. “Marco?”

“Jean, what’s up?” I tried not to seem overly curious, but I was mystified at Jean’s calling me so early in the morning.

“Fuck, it’s early, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Oh, well, um—”

“Sorry, I, uh—I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I accidentally took your French textbook and kept forgetting to give it back. Dude, I’m really sorry, but I am going to go fucking insane if I don’t bring this textbook to you right now.”

He sounded so serious. I laughed. “Yeah, I’m already up. Just bring it over. I’ll text you my address.”

“Thank god,” I heard him mutter. He hung up abruptly, without saying anything else. I texted him the address of the house and quickly finished my breakfast. I realized I was still only wearing boxer briefs, so I ran into my room and threw on a shirt and some sweatpants, then started working on my smoothie. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I threw in some spinach and milk, blending it for as long as I dared, then throwing in frozen fruits once I was sure there were no leafy bits. Jean knocked quietly at the door as I was sipping on the smoothie, confident I hadn’t woken anyone up.

I walked into the living room and dining area, where the front door was. I opened the door, and Jean stood there on the doorstep, wearing a loose, worn-out black t-shirt and gray joggers. His hair was sticking out in various places and he was carrying my French textbook, which I hadn’t thought about all week. It was still dim and dewy outside—the sun had not yet made it above the horizon.

“Dude,” he said. “Have you not been doing your homework? Why didn’t you ask me for your fucking textbook?”

I grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. He was right. I had not been doing my homework.

“It’s not due until tomorrow night,” I said weakly.

“Oh my god, is this why you failed last year?”

I scoffed, feigning offense, but I was glad he was here. “Come in,” I said, making room for him to enter the house.

He walked in and I glanced out toward the street, wondering how he got here. I saw a motorcycle parked right up next to our house and realized with a start that he rode here on  _ that _ .  _ Ah _ , I thought.  _ The hair. Is because he was wearing a helmet. _

I banished any thoughts about Jean riding a motorcycle out of my head.

He set the textbook down on the table and glanced around the room. The silence between us threatened to become uncomfortable, so I tried to think of something to say. “You’re up early.”

“I’m always up early on game days. Against my will,” he grumbled. “I can’t really sleep.”

“Do you want anything? I just made breakfast,” I offered, gesturing toward the kitchen.

“Uh, actually, can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure. Down the hall there, first door on the right.”

I sat down on the couch to wait for him as the sun slowly rose. Looking out the window at the street, I studied the motorcycle. It was sleek and black and Japanese, I think—I didn’t know much about motorcycles. A helmet hung from the handle. Suddenly, I heard a dull thud come from the bathroom.

That could not be good.

I walked gingerly toward the bathroom and knocked urgently but as quietly as I could. “Jean, you okay?”

No answer.

I opened the door, finding Jean laying on the floor of the bathroom, passed out cold. His face was pale and his lips were dry. Inside the toilet was what appeared to be the puke of somebody with a completely empty stomach. I started panicking, kneeling down to make sure he was breathing. I tried to prop him up against the bathroom cabinet, holding his face in my hands to keep his head from bobbing around. To my relief, he groaned and opened his eyes slightly.

“Jesus, Jean, are you awake? Are you okay?” Shaking, I quickly got up to grab a cup from the bathroom counter and fill it up in the sink.

He groaned again, slumping down and then finally mumbling, “I’m up. What happened?”

I knelt back down beside him with the water. “I think you fainted. You puked and then fainted.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’ve been puking all night.”

My heart skipped a beat when I thought about the fact that he could have fainted while he drove over here. What an  _ idiot! _

But I did not say that to him. I said: “Okay, I think you’re just dehydrated. Drink this.” I handed him the cup of water and he sipped cautiously. Slowly, color returned to his face, his shoulders relaxed, and he finished the water. I had been sitting with my back against another wall, staring at him intently. He slowly rose, seeming embarrassed.

“I—I better go,” he said.

I sprung up. “No, Jean, please. I really would rather you don’t drive home before you eat something and hang out for a while.”

He waved his hands dismissively. “I’m fine, it’s a short ride.”

He headed out of the bathroom and toward the front door, but I grabbed his wrist firmly.

“Jean, stay. Eat.” It came out more forcefully than I intended.

Jean looked at me. For a moment, I thought he was going to pull away—there was a flash of defiance in his gaze. But it passed.

“Okay, okay,” he said. I let go of his wrist.

"Sit,” I said, pulling a chair out from the dining table. He sat down, leaned back, and put his feet up on the table.  _ Well, I’m glad he feels comfortable here. _

I went to the kitchen to warm up the remaining eggs and sausage from my breakfast and grabbed a banana. I put my smoothie, which I’d forgotten about once Jean arrived, into the fridge for later. Bringing the food out to Jean, I felt shamefully domestic.

Once I placed the plate down in front of him, he hunched over it and ate with reckless abandon. “This is so fucking good,” he said between bites. I felt hot pride glowing in my cheeks—I had ground and seasoned the sausage myself. This was why I loved cooking—I loved making people feel good.

“You’re sure eating fast for someone who was puking all night,” I said cautiously.

“Eh, it happens before every game,” he replied, but slowed down a little. “I think the worst of it is over.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” I pointed out unhelpfully.

He waved his hands dismissively again and didn’t reply.

I didn’t want to press further, so I tried to think of something else to talk about. “So, is that your motorcycle out there?”

He stopped eating and flashed me a smirk. “You like it?”

I felt myself turn red. I don’t think he realized the effect he had on me. “Uh, I don’t know anything about motorcycles.”

“It’s my dad’s, technically, but I’ve done so much work on it that he kind of just let me have it. We both work on cars and bikes a lot. It’s the only interest we have in common.”

“That’s so cool,” I said earnestly. “It must feel amazing to drive something that you’ve worked on with your own hands.”

He smiled, a big, eye-crinkling, genuine smile. I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile like that before. “Yeah, that’s exactly how it feels.”

He finished his plate. Except for the banana peel, it was completely clean. He stood up. “Well, thanks for the meal. I owe you one.”

I was reluctant to let him go, but he seemed better now, so I didn’t protest. “I’ll see you later today, Jean.”

He left, and I watched from the window as he sat down on his motorcycle, put on his helmet, and rode off. Reiner finally emerged from the hallway in only his boxers and a pair of slippers, clearly already pumped for the game. “Morning! Are you fucking  _ ready _ ?”

* * *

A nervous buzz permeated the locker room before the game. I sat on a bench next to Reiner, who was relatively calm, and watched my teammates. Armin and Connie were arguing over a pair of socks. Eren was trying to teach Bert how to box. Most of our other teammates were chatting or sitting alone listening to music on headphones. As I looked around the room, I realized with a start that I didn’t see Jean.

I stood up, turning the corner and wandering into the shower room. None of the showers were on, but I quietly called out his name anyway: “Jean? You in here?”

In response, the door of the stall directly to my right shot open. I jumped back, turning to look—Jean was there, his chest rising and falling quickly, his face pale, staring at me silently. Before I could say anything, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the stall with him, slamming the door closed. We were now facing each other in the small stall, just a few inches away. I tried to back up and give him space—it looked like he needed some—but I hit the stall and couldn’t back up any more.

“Jean, are you okay?”

“Sorry, I—I get a little worked up before games sometimes. I didn’t want anyone else to see me.”

I was speechless. He slid down to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. I thought back to his swaggering confidence during practices and his attitude during our tutoring sessions, so sure of himself. This Jean was different—quiet, scared, small. I didn’t really know what to do, so I slid down to sit opposite him and held out my hand. He looked at it, then up at me.

“I won’t tell anyone else. Grab my hand and breathe.”

Shockingly, he grabbed my hand. His hand was clammy, but he held mine firmly. He stuck his nose into his knees and closed his eyes. We breathed together for a few minutes, until he started to relax. He propped his chin up on his knees and locked eyes with me. He just sort of...stared at me for a bit. I don’t think he realized it, but his gaze was intense and searching.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I broke the silence. “Are you feeling better now?”

He blinked, and the intensity was gone. “Yeah. Uh, please don’t tell—”

“I won’t.”

* * *

On the field, Jean was back to his old self. In fact, he was even more swaggering than I’d ever seen him—if I didn’t know any better I would say he was in his _ element _ .

Immediately after kickoff, Jean took possession of the ball, passing it to Connie, who passed it back to Jean, who pushed forward, then passed it forward to Eren, who scored. The crowd roared, and I grinned from the rear.  _ That was easy. So it’s going to be that kind of game. _

It was indeed  _ that  _ kind of game. We were playing against Berlioz, a small team with slow players who made a lot of mistakes. I got tons of tackles—despite myself, I wondered if any recruiters were in the crowd counting—and blocked the ball from getting to Armin several times. Eren scored twice, Jean scored twice, and Connie scored once. Even Reiner, a defender, scored once, as well. The other team only scored once overall, which was still too high for Ackerman’s taste. Accordingly, he lectured us after the game.

After assuring us we'd be watching tons of tape from today's game the next Monday, Ackerman and the rest of the coaching staff finally left and the locker room erupted into glee at winning our first game. Thomas invited everyone to his place the next night for a party. "Bring anyone you want! It's time we did something fun for once!"

He distributed his address to everyone and told us to show up at 7. I remembered going to a party at his place last year, too—he lived in a house with a few other guys, like me. I also faintly remembered there being a lake just past his backyard. 

Sure, I'd go. What's the worst that could happen?

As I was leaving the locker room to go home for the night, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. A text from Mina: "great job!!! you were right, jean is really good-looking and good at soccer ;)"

"Marco, you got a minute?"

Jean's voice. I jumped and immediately put my phone in my pocket, too defensively. He didn't seem to notice. His cheeks were no longer red from the exertion of the game—not that I had been looking—but his hair was still tousled and he carried his crumpled up, grass stained uniform in his arms.

"Hey Jean, what's up?" I tried to act casual to deflect from acting cagey with my phone.

"Uh, this is embarrassing, but I was originally gonna walk home. But my legs hurt. So I was wondering if you could give me a ride?"

"Of course," I replied. 

I led him out to the parking lot where my old red Honda Civic was parked. He looked at it appraisingly. I suddenly remembered he was into motorcycles and became self-conscious as we got into the front seats. 

"Damn, your ride sucks ass," Jean said.

I laughed, a little too hard. Honestly, I was glad he said something instead of pretending. "It works, though."

As I pulled out onto the road, he tilted his head and his brow crinkled in focus. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Marco, are you kidding? Cars aren't supposed to  _ rattle _ ."

"Oh, I just always ignore that."

He laughed. I wondered what was so funny about what I said.

"Dude, you've gotta let me look at your car sometime. Please. This is ridiculous," he said. I thought about Jean underneath my car with a wrench, getting grease all over his shirt.

"...sure, whenever you're free," I said, trying to enact a mild tone, despite the fire I felt rising in my cheeks. I tried to change the subject to distract myself. "So what got you into cars and motorcycles?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, my dad and I just always liked fixing them together, as a bonding activity, I guess. I was actually never that into the riding aspect of it all—I just liked using my hands. But I've grown to like riding them and it got me interested in design, too. Not just aesthetically—like, making the engine run more efficiently. It's why I'm an engineering major."

"That's really cool," I said, smiling, my eyes still on the road. I liked hearing Jean talk about himself. He was interesting. 

In a matter of minutes, we were at Jean's dorm building. "Uh, are you going to Thomas's tomorrow?"

He was already sliding out of the passenger seat. "Yeah! See you there!"

The door shut before I could reply. I smiled, watching him walk slowly into the building. He was so sure of himself, so relaxed. It puzzled me that this was the same guy that fainted in my bathroom and had a panic attack in the showers. Which I realized we had totally brushed over.  _ He probably just doesn't like talking about it. I guess I wouldn't, if it were me. _

Before driving off, I checked the home screen of my phone. A notification for an email caught my eye and the color drained from my face.

My first French quiz had been graded.

I anxiously pressed the notification, navigating to the website with my grades. A little circle spun around in the middle of my screen as the page loaded.  _ Come on, come on, come on… _

I got a 10/10.

I stared in shock. I had never gotten a perfect score in French class before. Sure, this was the second time I was taking it, but still—a perfect score! My heart raced. Were the tutoring lessons actually  _ working _ ? Suddenly, everything I'd ever dreamed of started feeling more real. I imagined buying a one-way plane ticket to Paris, finding a job as a line cook all in French. Applying to culinary schools.  _ Fuck _ .

I'd never let myself get so hopeful that I could achieve this dream. But then Jean Kirschtein walked into my life, and just like that, France was in my grasp.

So, I did what any sane person who thought they were one step closer to their dream would do. I turned on some ABBA, and I shouted along with the lyrics the entire way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've been playing around with this idea as a way to relax during the pandemic for a while now so I figured I would finally post it. I am sorry, current SNK fans, but I have no idea what's going on in the show currently, I'm writing mostly for myself, but also for anybody else like me, who longs for more of the jeanmarco content of yore. :)
> 
> Also, might as well come out and say right now that I know next to nothing about the following things: college soccer, the French language, and culinary school. I'm wingin' it!


End file.
